young girl whose face and name spell romance. If I were seeking
occupation here is the opportunity knocking my door into splinters.




STILL AT SEA. June, 1911.

Any time you are out of a job and want to overwork all your
faculties and a few emotions, try chaperoning a young room-mate
answering to the name of Sada San, who is one-half American dash,
and the other half the unnamable witchery of a Japanese woman; a
girl with the notes of a lark in her voice when she sings to the
soft twang of an old guitar.

If, too, you are seeking to study psychological effect of such a
combination on people, good, middlin' and otherwise, I would
suggest a Pacific liner as offering fifty-seven varieties, and then
some.

The last twinge of conscience I had over coming, died a cheerful
death. I 'd do it again. For not only is romance surcharging the
air, but fate gives promise of weaving an intricate pattern in the
story of this maid whose life is just fairly begun and whom the
luck of the road has given me as traveling mate. Now, remembering
a few biffs fate has given me, I have no burning desire to meddle
with her business. Neither am I hungering for responsibility. But
what are you going to say to yourself, when a young girl with a
look in her eyes you would wish your daughter to have,
unhesitatingly gives you a letter addressed at large to some